Chapter 1

Three years of marriage. I hid my claws and willingly became a golden canary in the Vance family's gilded cage.

The true cause of my father’s death was locked inside the Vance family's underground vault. Until I got my hands on it, I needed to keep playing the perfect Mrs. Vance.

My mother-in-law, Victoria, claimed I came from humble beginnings and graciously hired twelve professional bodyguards to "ensure my safety."

I thought it was a blessing—until the day I went out and bought a ruby-red lipstick.

The head of the security detail blocked me on the street, snatched the lipstick from my hand, and crushed it under his boot.

"Mrs. Vance, your mother-in-law said this shade is too vulgar. It shows you are restless."

My real-time location, heart rate, and spending records were synced to Victoria's phone twenty-four hours a day.

If I so much as glanced at a luxury car on the street, Marcus, the lead guard, would slap me across the face, accusing me of trying to seduce another billionaire.

If my afternoon nap exceeded thirty minutes, they would kick my door open and douse me with ice water to wake me up for a lecture.

Covered in bruises, I went to Julian. He didn't even look up from his paperwork.

"They're a professional security team, Elena. They do it for your own good. Stop being so paranoid."

That night, the bodyguards pinned me to the cold tile floor. I was forced to listen to a voice note Victoria had sent to my Snapchat.

"Still awake at three in the morning? Are you waiting for a secret lover to pick you up? You worthless trash."

I turned my head and saw my blood-smeared face in the mirror.

Suddenly, I smiled.

Three years.

I had mapped out every single inch of the Vance family’s dirty secrets.

I slowly turned the old watch on my wrist. They had searched every piece of jewelry I owned, but none of them had ever spared a second glance at this worn-out "flea market junk."

Right under the watch face, there was a hidden red button.

I pressed it.

"Shadow Squad. Coordinate: Vance Manor."

"Three minutes. Clear the field."

"What are you whispering?"

Marcus Kane lifted his knee from my back. Not because he felt pity—he had heard me.

He squatted down, grabbed a handful of my hair, and yanked my face up from the cold tiles.

"Three minutes? Clear the field? Who are you talking to?"

"Just talking in my sleep."

*Slap.* My ears rang for a few seconds.

He leaned down, staring at the old watch on my wrist.

"This piece of trash—who let this slip through security?"

Behind him, Bobby shrank back. "Boss, we checked it. It's just cheap junk... She said it was a keepsake from her dead mother—"

"A keepsake? A keepsake doesn't get a free pass!"

Marcus ripped the watch from my wrist, flipped it over, and scraped his fingernail along the casing.

The hidden button had already snapped back into place. There were only scratches on the worn bronze surface.

He shook it. No sound.

He pried open the back cover. Inside was a cheap quartz movement. A button cell battery. No microchips, no antenna.

"Garbage."

He threw the watch onto the floor and ground his heel into it, shattering the casing.

But the signal had already been sent the second I pressed the button. It didn't go through the watch. It went through something else on my wrist.

The smart heart-rate tracker they had forced me to wear for three years.

"Get up."

I pushed myself up with both hands, my ribs aching sharply.

Without waiting for me, he grabbed my arm, dragged me up, and shoved me onto the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and shoved the screen in my face.

"Explain this. Your heart rate spiked from 82 to 144 two minutes ago, then dropped back to 91 within forty seconds. That's not a fear response. Heart rates don't recover that fast naturally."

A jagged red line. A sharp peak, like an abnormal electrical discharge on an EKG.

That was the exact moment I pressed the button.

"I had a nightmare. You were pinning me to the floor, and I couldn't breathe."

He stared at me for three long seconds.

"Fine. A nightmare."

He slid the phone back into his pocket, pulled out another device, and opened a voice recording app.

"Let me read back what you just muttered. *'Shadow Squad. Coordinate: Vance Manor. Three minutes. Clear the field.'* Sound familiar?"

"Why are you recording this?"

"Your mother-in-law is arriving tomorrow morning at eight. She’s bringing Dr. Miller. A mental health evaluation. This recording will serve as perfect evidence."

"A mental health evaluation?"

"You didn't know?" He pulled out a wet wipe to clean the dust off his hands. "Victoria thinks you've been acting stranger lately. Talking to yourself, staring blankly at the wall, and your hands were shaking when you held a knife in the kitchen last week—"

"I was chopping vegetables."

"Hands shaking while chopping vegetables. It’s already on the record. *03:07 AM, subject displayed hallucinatory speech, attempting to contact a fictional organization.* Record complete."

He read the words into his phone like a doctor dictating a medical report.

He walked to the door, then paused.

"Almost forgot. Victoria wants you to find the insurance authorization form your father left behind. She wants to see it tomorrow at eight."

"What does an insurance form have to do with my evaluation?"

"Why are you asking me?" He opened the door. "But the last time Richard Cole came over was the day you signed your prenup. This time, he's coming with Dr. Miller. Figure it out yourself."

The door slammed shut. The lock turned twice. Outside in the hallway, the guards changed shifts, their leather boots clicking in perfect sync.

My phone lit up. A Snapchat voice note from Victoria.

"Clear the field in three minutes—your own words. Excellent. Saves Dr. Miller the trouble of inventing a diagnosis. You handed us the evidence yourself."

A two-second pause.

"Bring the insurance form and your father's estate probate documents tomorrow morning. Don't make me have Marcus search your room. He isn't known for being gentle."

Another message popped up.

"By the way, your father’s life insurance policy lists you as the sole beneficiary. But if the beneficiary is deemed mentally unfit to manage their finances... the legal conservator automatically takes over. Think carefully about who your conservator will be."

The audio ended.

I looked up. On the ceiling, the red indicator light of the pinhole camera blinked slowly.

In the hallway, Bobby’s voice drifted in.

"Boss, is she really losing her mind?"

Marcus's voice faded as he walked away.

"Whether she's crazy or not doesn't matter. What matters is what Dr. Miller writes in that report tomorrow."